The Storm, the Stillness, and What Remains

Literal or figurative, storms have a way of putting everything on pause. Stress and fear and the sense of impending crisis push plans aside, rearranging routines like leaves on a breeze. Suddenly, nothing matters but the need to prepare for what's coming, the longing to protect what's precious, and the frantic effort to tie loose ends before everything blows away in the wind.

This weekend, as severe storms swept across the United States, I found myself caught in terrifying stillness—the kind that settles around you when the only thing left to do is wait. And in a beautifully unexpected pause, I held something far more settling than stillness: validation, connection, and the comfort of vulnerable conversation fueled by similar experience.

Because the fact is, no matter how far we’ve come, we carry echoes of the past—and braving the storm is more than survival. It's finding the courage to sort through debris long after the winds have shifted.

The wind stirred softly, moving air that somehow felt utterly peaceful and unspeakably electrified all at once. It brushed cool fingers of anxiety down my neck, whispered desperation in my ear, surrounded me with the scent of rain. The sky, filled with threatening clouds in questionable formation, flashed like an erratic heartbeat—silent darkness marred by shifting shapes, suddenly highlighted by jagged streaks of brilliant lightning. My daughter was in the living room, watching the weather report.

Perhaps my friend and I should have been inside. Maybe we should have been gathered together, sheltered safely in a closet without windows. Surrounded by hanging fabrics and neatly organized shoes, with our heads in our hands, every surrounding door in full masquerade to shield us from incoming peril. But as we stood on the porch, watching strobe lights in the sky, meditating on the greater storm of life itself, there was an uncanny sense of peace. Tornadoes had been devastating towns all day, shredding buildings and rending the fabric of families from the Gulf Coast to the Canadian border. The storm was upon us. We had done our best to prepare, and we stood in the promise of hope—just barely inside the television radar's red circle of foreboding terror. But here, in this moment, there was only the hush of the wind and the steady presence of someone who understood.

We stood breathing in intermittent silence, soaked in simmering emotion as charged as the surrounding wind, shoulders rounded under the weight of responsibility. Two bleeding little girls, now braced against the storm as women with scarred hearts and spirits filled to the brim with companionable vulnerability, both pillars of strength and dignity beyond the influences of putrefied pasts.

I am not unwise. I feared the menacing storm, the threat of new loss. I carried within myself a flaming ember of abject terror and a soul-deep certainty of my inadequacy in the face of such an enemy. Tornadoes shred lives with no regard for strength or trauma or money, disdaining all preparation at will. But in that storm a candle lit the darkness of the night—the quietly flickering flame of a friend who doesn't flinch at my story. Who doesn’t try to reshape my past, or hers, into something more palatable. Who doesn't need me to soften the edges of truth for easier hearing.

Lightning split the sky again as the storm moved away, illuminating for one split second the great world and my tiny place in it.

Often, if we allow it, the past does the same. Jagged flashing stripes of lightning reveal the impact of where we've been and how far we've come. What we've seen and done lingers like fallen rain in the atmosphere, and reflections of the past rumble like thunder in the distance. The marks of our parents and families remain in us, no matter which lessons we pack in our "go bag" or how far we travel to outrun them. But as we stood shoulder to shoulder, weighing fear against observation, I realized something else.

We are more than mere echoes of our origins. We are the molds that shape new beginnings, the ones who decide what remains.

*****

Ultimately, this weekend's storm passed. The sky cleared. Life moved on. And so did we. I’m resting up in the aftermath, swaddled in gratitude for the reminder that even in the most unexpected places—regardless of turbulent skies or tangled emotions—there is space for healing. For friendship. And for the simple quiet relief of being understood.

It’s a lot like writing, in some ways. Some weeks, words flow as effortlessly as river water making its way to the sea. Other weeks I’m in the eye of the storm, the quiet space between waves. Waiting for tension to pass. Waiting for the dam to break and release a new tide of wordplay. There are days when progress feels as weak as a dripping a kitchen faucet, insignificant and very nearly unnoticeable. But drop by drop, word by word, slow progress still moves forward. FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM releases in fifty-two days (preorder info is here!), STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM surprises me constantly with the beauty of Christine's story and my own pride in writing it, and SELKIEs are on the horizon.

So this week, remember that no matter how strong the storm is, storms don’t last forever. Remember that winds change, floodwaters recede, and you already have everything you need to...